


Five Times John Didn't Want to Find a Silicone Replica of Sherlock's Dick and One Time He Did

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dildos, Embarrassment, Humor, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:44:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, doesn't the title really say it all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times John Didn't Want to Find a Silicone Replica of Sherlock's Dick and One Time He Did

**Author's Note:**

  * For [picklepies](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=picklepies).



> I wrote this for picklepies as part of the Johnlockchallenges Re-Gift Exchange. The prompt was “Sherlock Christmas Gift Giving” (fic or art) in "any" genre with a rating of G, T, M, or E.
> 
> It does eventually get to the "Christmas gift giving" bit... I swear. Just keep reading!
> 
> She didn't get her prompt filled in the first round of the JLC Gift Exchange, but I hope this makes up for it. Merry Christmas, picklepies! ♥
> 
> P.S. You still have a birthday gift fic coming too... I just ran out of time.

To say Sherlock was strange would be an understatement. That much could be said by anyone who’s ever met him. But it was exponentially more noticeable to those closest to him, which is to say that John Watson was downright painfully aware of that fact. The good news was that John not only knew it, he loved it. He enjoyed the thrill of not knowing what body part he may find in the fridge (or microwave or oven or the tank of the loo, though only once). He liked never knowing what to expect. It held all the excitement of the battlefield but with a slightly lower chance of incurring a bullet wound (though only slightly).

So, when John first discovered that Sherlock owned a silicone replica of his own erect— _that better be erect, or feelings of inadequacy in 3, 2, 1_  –penis, he was more caught off-guard than truly surprised. And, of course, before he could even begin to ask why, the question was answered.

“It was for a case.”

“Oh, bollocks! What sort of case requires…” John hesitated. “You know what? Never mind. Just… just forget I even asked.”

“For god’s sake, John, you’re blushing.”

“I can’t imagine why. I’ve only just inadvertently grabbed hold of a molded copy of your…” John stopped and cleared his throat. “Your… well… you know.”

“Penis, John. It’s called a penis. And there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Isn’t there? I mean, our relationsh—friendship could never have been classified as normal, but this is just a step too far. There is no sane or rational reason why I should ever be standing here holding a replica of your pe—nope! Cant’ say it! Sorry!”

Well, children… If you haven’t yet sussed out John’s mistake, I’ll help you. Sherlock Holmes had just become keenly aware of how very hilariously flustered his flat mate got in the presence of a silicone cock. And, being the genius he was, he quickly deduced that the entertainment value of such moments would only increase with the addition of other people. So, let the social experiment begin!

***

The first… er… incident— _yes, let’s go with ‘incident’_ –occurred several weeks after the false phallus was first discovered (much like you’ve just discovered my love of alliteration). John was strolling casually through the parlour when something new on the mantelpiece caught his eye. There it stood—on its handy-dandy base –the firm but wiggly representation of a certain consulting detective’s dick. It jutted up, loud and proud, like a goddamn statue. _Never mind that it **was** a bit of a masterpiece… wait… what?_

But John merely sighed. It was a harmless prank— _save for those pesky, irrational, maybe-Irene-was-right-abou-me thoughts it seemed to inspire_. Or, rather, it was harmless _at first_. No sooner had John seen it, the doorknob to their flat was turning with Mrs. Hudson’s voice drifting through the quickly expanding crack between door and frame. John feverishly snatched the inappropriate article from the mantel and had only enough time to hide it behind his back and out of his landlady’s view.

“John, dear, I do hope I’m not intruding.”

“No, no. Not at all. Of course not,” John answered in a not-at-all-suspicious rush.

“Have you…” She paused, concern in her eyes. “Are you alright, dear?”

“Hm?” John shuffled his feet and glanced nervously over his shoulder. “Yeah. Fine. What can I do for you?”

Despite her apparent dubiousness, she continued, “Nothing really. I was just wondering if you’d seen a package come through the post for me. I’ve been expecting it for weeks and thought maybe you or Sherlock had picked up by accident.”

“Nope. Not here,” John replied curtly after a cursory glance at the roughly one meter of area directly around him.

“Are… are you sure? That—” She pointed just behind him. “—looks like it could be it. I know my eyes aren’t what they used to be, but I can’t imagine you or Sherlock buying anything off QVC. Could you just check the mailing label for me, dear?”

“What?” John looked toward the package without moving a single muscle below his neck. “Nah. I don’t think that’s it. I buy loads of stuff off QVC. It’s probably mine.”

“Oh. I didn’t… Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Mm. Yeah.”

“Would you mind if I checked? I’ll be quick about it. It’s not that I doubt you or anything. It’s just—”

“Yeah. No. Absolutely.”

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes darted back and forth, her expression making it clear she was trying desperately to process his answer.

John closed his eyes and huffed out a breath. “Yes, you’re welcome to check.”

She cautiously crossed the room, her eyes never leaving John. And how could she look away? Stiff didn’t even begin to describe his posture, and he was slowly turning as she walked so that his front always faced her—or, rather, so the dick in his hands remained steadfastly out of sight.

John watched as she gingerly picked up the box and finally tore her gaze away from him long enough to read what he was sure would be her own name on the shipping label.

“Looks like it’s mine after all,” she said, tucking the parcel under her arm. “I guess I’ll be off then. Sorry to trouble you, dear.”

But, as she headed for the door, her toe caught on the rug. She tripped, and her body was soon careening haplessly toward a side table. And there was no circumstance, great or small, that would keep John Watson from rushing to the aid of Mrs. Hudson. He lunged, his arms darting out to catch her, and the counterfeit cock crashed to the floor in exactly the way she didn’t (I told you I like alliteration, you might want to get used to it).

Once she was righted, her sweet, innocent eyes— _let me believe_ –fell upon the fallen phallus then dragged slowly to John’s ever-reddening face. “I’ll just be going then,” she said, her voice fraught with tension. “I can see you’re busy.”

“No… It’s not mine.” He was nearly shouting. “It’s Sherlock’s.”

Her eyes widened in a way that suggested it was now somehow even more scandalous.

“Wait.” John shook his head, scrambling to pluck the prick from the parquet. “I mean, it’s a literal copy of Sherlock’s co—” He coughed, rocking from the balls to the heels of his feet and back. “I’m not helping, am I?”

Mrs. Hudson slowly shook her head in conformation that he, in fact, was not helping. After she left, John hung his head and carted the cock away in hopes of hiding it.

***

To hide something from Sherlock Holmes—could any sillier prospect be proposed?  Sherlock had already located the item du jour before John even knew it was in jeopardy of being found. And thusly began the story of its second appearance.

It had been a long day at St. Bart’s already, and it was only 11am. The morning had been filled with snuffling children, overly concerned mothers, hypochondriacs, and a few more _‘does this rash look like an STI?’_ patients than were strictly necessary. But reprieve would soon come in the form of lunch.

John found and sidled up to the empty seat next to Sarah. “May I?” he asked.

“Sure, sure!” She scooted over enough for him to slide into the chair. Once he was settled, she continued, “I’d ask if your day was going any better than mine, but judging by the state of you, I’d wager a guess it’s not.”

“God, no. It’s been a bloody madhouse all morning. Is there a full moon I didn’t know about?”

Sarah giggled. “Perhaps, yeah. At least we have a moment away. Better savour it.”

John scrubbed his palms against his temples and agreed before dumping his lunch on the table. He’d been running late, so a sandwich and a packet of crisps had been hurriedly tossed into a bag on his way through the kitchen that morning. It wasn’t exactly a five-star dining experience, but it would do.

Only, what fell out of the bag was a bit more than he’d bargained for. His crisps lay just off to the left, a bit worse for the wear, and right in front of him was his sandwiched pinned to the table by none other than the rubbery penis that had now been haunting him for weeks. But that wasn’t enough—oh, no –not by a long shot. The situation was punctuated by a note tied around its shaft. _‘Found this under your bed and thought you might need it. –SH’_

In nearly any other situation, John might have had the wherewithal to quickly sweep it from the table, but he was tired. And, more than tired, he was bloody well in shock. So, he instead let his eyes bounce back and forth between Sarah’s face and the unexpected phallus for a few long seconds before he shoved it back into the bag and made the reluctant decision to place it in his briefcase. “Oh… no… I’m sorry… it’s not what it looks—”

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “It looks like you’ve brought a dildo in your lunch.”

“Well, I haven’t. I mean, Sherlock must have—” John sighed, the look of idle amusement on Sarah’s face assuring him he need not continue. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Oh, I don’t know about all that. Looks like prizes have improved since I was a kid.” She smirked and bit back a laugh. “Just make sure you eat all your food before you play with your toy.”

John’s blushed from his neck all the way up to his ears. “I don’t even know when he had time to—”

“It’s fine, John. If you’ll remember, I’ve met him.” She nudged his bicep with her elbow. “You needn’t worry about me. I swear I won’t start anymore rumours about the two of you than I already do.”

John chuckled. “I appreciate it.”

Later that night, he made sure Sherlock understood that it wasn’t appropriate to distract him in the morning so as to find time to hide penises in his lunch. And Sherlock, as you may have guessed, didn’t even pretend to listen.

***

Incident number three trumped the first two combined. John had finally scored a date with one of the nurses from St. Bart’s. Her name was Mary. She was a shy girl with flaxen hair, fair skin, and brilliantly green eyes, an absolute vision of loveliness.

He’d had his eye on her for months, but he’d only just plucked up the courage to actually ask her out. He was barely able to contain his excitement when she accepted. They planned it for her day off, and she’d met John at the hospital just before his shift was over.

“Do you mind if we make a brief stop by my flat on the way to dinner?” he asked as they loaded into the cab. “I’d like to grab a jacket.”

“No. Of course not. I’d love to see your place.” She smiled sweetly at him.

“Oh, I… um… yeah.” He cringed. If Sherlock was home, disaster was imminent. “We’ll have to be quick, though… reservations and whatnot.”

“I didn’t know you’d made reservations anywhere.”

“Mm. I thought I should… in case they were busy.” John covertly sent a text to Angelo—luckily, he accepted reservations by text from both John and Sherlock –to get the reservation set up immediately.

“At 5pm on a Wednesday?”

John winced toward the window before forcing a smile. “You never know. Better safe than sorry.”

And speaking of being safe rather than sorry, he sent a second text to Sherlock. _‘Coming by with a date to grab my jacket. Best behaviour. I like this one. –JW’_

“Yeah, I suppose,” she agreed, despite not sounding like she meant it.

The cab waited at the kerb as both John and Mary ascended the steps to 221B. As they approached the door, it swung open to a grinning Sherlock. John sighed. “Ah, Sherlock. I rather thought you might be out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. If I was out, you’d likely be with me. I don’t think I’ve met your friend.” He turned his attention toward the young woman. “Sherlock Holmes, and you are?”

“Mary.” She offered her hand, which Sherlock shook. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’ve heard loads about you around the hospital.”

“Ah. Lovely.” Sherlock pursed his lips. “I’m sorry I can’t say the same of you.”

John elbowed him in the ribs as he walked past. “That’s surely because you don’t listen when I talk.”

“Perhaps if you weren’t so boring,” Sherlock jibed.

“Yes, well, we’ll just be going then.” John grabbed his jacked and threw it over his forearm.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” Sherlock smiled, pretending for the briefest moment to be a normal person.

“Seeing as how you generally refuse to eat, make polite conversation, or have fun, I dare say I’ll be doing heaps of things you wouldn’t.” John was rather proud of his quick rhetoric, especially when Sherlock didn’t respond. It wasn’t often he got one over on his the great detective Holmes. But, as he turned to leave, he heard a heavy thud and Mary’s squeal. A glance toward the floor confirmed his worst nightmare, the hefty rubber dong lying atop her foot.

The tight-lipped grin on Sherlock’s face threatened to spill into a fit of laughter, but Mary was far too busy looking personally affronted to notice. John had never seen such a mixture of embarrassment, horror, and disgust before in his life, yet he felt like he already knew it well. He recognized it as the look he’d soon be getting from Mary and everyone she spoke to as he passed them in the hallways of St. Bart’s. And it was good he recognized it, because he’d be receiving for, more or less, the entirety of his foreseeable future.

Before he could even apologize, Mary had already received a make believe phone call which ‘unfortunately’ and ‘unexpectedly’ required her abrupt departure. She was sure they could ‘reschedule for another time’ though, even if her calendar was ‘a bit busy for the next… er… several weeks.’ John just allowed her to make her excuses and watched her get back into the cab alone.

“Smug git,” John seethed as he closed the door.

“You should be thanking me. It never would have worked out, and I just saved you months of heartache.”

“Yeah? Well, did you ever think maybe I wanted to work it out on my own for once? Maybe have a little fun along the way?”

“No, because you don’t.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Sherlock. I assure you, I would absolutely love a chance to work something out for myself every now and again. And, if she was a mistake, I’d much rather you’d let me make it.” John turned and stomped off down the hallway, intent on having the last word on the matter.

But Sherlock called after him, “She was boring, John. And you hate boring every bit as much as I do, maybe even more.”

Sherlock’s retort was punctuated by the slamming of John’s bedroom door. He was fuming—partially because his date was ruined, but mostly because Sherlock was spot-fucking-on. As much as he told himself he wanted to be normal and boring, it was honestly the most terrifyingly dreadful thought he could manage. Mary _was_ boring; that’s probably why he’d picked her in the first place. But Sherlock was bloody well right, as usual. _He even knows what I want more than I do._ Hell, dropping a silicone cock on his future dates’ feet could almost become a test of worthiness: laugh = pass; retreat at near lightspeed = fail. And Mary had failed. In fact, the only person John could guarantee wouldn’t fail was Sherlock, and he certainly wasn’t a viable option… right?

***

By the time Sherlock’s prick—the silicone one –made its fourth unwelcome appearance, John had resigned himself to the life he was leading. He’d even started to find his flat mate’s antics amusing. ‘Hide the Dick’—again, the silicone one –had practically become his new favourite game… at least, it did once he relented to the twelve year old schoolboy who still sometimes resided in his head.

This time, he was at the supermarket doing the shopping. It was a fairly short list: milk, eggs, bread, beans, sugar, and—scrawled in Sherlock’s _‘I need this for science’_ handwriting –borax.  With nearly everything he needed already in the trolley, he reached for a can of beans. He would never be sure how so many cans toppled when he was certain he’d only grabbed the one, but they fell away to expose the obligatory cock displayed behind them. _How the fuck?_ If he didn’t know better—or, at least, hoped otherwise –he’d swear Mycroft had helped this time.

When an entire shelf of canned beans falls to the linoleum-over-cement floor of your average supermarket, it raises quite a clatter. And, as you might have guessed, that much noise attracts a good deal of attention. But what’s a man to do?

With a small chuckle, John pulled the dick off the shelf—no easy task, as the base had amusingly suctioned itself onto the flat metal surface –and set it in the basket of the trolley. The expression on the face of the nearest employee—an acne plagued teenage boy –when John told him of the mishap in the bean aisle made the whole ordeal worth it, even more so when the boy saw just _how much_ of a mess it really was. Then, John proceeded to go through the queue and check out at the chip and PIN machine with the penis—yes, still the silicone one –in full view of the customers around him.

Mothers covered their children’s eyes. A group of chavvy looking young people pointed and snickered. One man in particular—an octogenarian, at a guess –looked as if he might actually faint. But John just smiled to himself. All he cared about was getting home and finding out how Sherlock had gotten the cock behind the beans, arranged for the proper cans to fall, and made certain John would be the one who discovered it. When he thought about the potential for some unassuming elderly woman finding it instead, he outright laughed like a madman for—as far as the general public was concerned –absolutely no reason at all and left the store smiling.

***

Cock Bomb #5— yes, that was what John had started calling its random appearances in his life –was Sherlock’s most impressive yet. A delivery truck pulled up and stopped at the end of the alley, only about a hundred meters from the dead body Sherlock was inspecting. And, of course, the entirety of the Met went onto high alert with its arrival. _After all, who hasn’t seen Se7en?_

They all watched cautiously as the driver approached with a box. “John Watson? Is there a John Watson here?” he asked, his voice going a bit shaky after noticing the corpse.

“I’m John Watson.” John looked toward Lestrade, who just shrugged.

The man had him sign, handed him the box, and wished him a pleasant afternoon before practically running back to his truck.

On the hood of Lestrade’s police car, John carefully opened the box. But he already knew what was inside. I can hear you asking: how did he know? Well, he knew because Sherlock was completely disinterested in what was going on. And, try as he may to seem uncaring, Sherlock was always deeply invested in John’s safety, which meant he knew the item in the box wasn’t harmful and John was in no danger. It meant that the mysterious package was now the dick-in-a-box version of Schrodinger’s cat.

So, when John peeled back the flaps, his lips twitched into a wide smile. There lay the dick—which he’d not seen in weeks and had actually started to miss a bit –just as expected. But he wouldn’t be shy and embarrassed. No, because that’s rather what Sherlock had been hoping for. Instead, John pulled it out and waved it around. He tossed it from hand to hand and let himself feel the weight of it. He goddamn downright _inspected_ it. “Those guys—” He pointed toward the spot where the truck had been parked. “— _they. are. good._ I mean, finding me all the way out here, and a day ahead of schedule? Consider me impressed. I think I may go as far as to send a letter of thanks. Can we wrap this up fairly quickly, boys? I’d like to get home and use this sooner rather than later.”

And, needless to say, all eyes widened—even those of Sherlock Holmes, whose face wore an expression of surprise but also of pride. _Calling that a win!_

A few officers—mostly the unimportant ones who were nameless so far as John was concerned–snickered and elbowed each other. A few others, who he would be sure to keep a much closer eye on moving forward, looked downright disgusted. There was Anderson, who looked honest to god jealous. And then stood Lestrade and Sally. Lestrade _almost_ looked impressed, his eyebrows raised and a gleaming, perfect grin spread wide across his face. He motioned to Sally, who glowered at him as she slapped the tenner into his open and waiting palm. When Lestrade winked his thanks, John bit his lip and blew him a kiss in return.

Later that night and back at the flat, John finally got the chance to ask Sherlock how he’d done it.

“A magician never gives away his tricks,” Sherlock replied.

“No surprise there.” John shook his head. “Can you at least assure me that Mycroft hasn’t been helping?”

Sherlock just raised an obligatory eyebrow and said nothing.

“Alright. I’ll just be in my room trying to get that image out of my head.” As John headed toward the hallway, he stopped and turned back. “Hey, Sherlock… Nice job. That was your best one yet.” He couldn’t explain why he wanted to compliment the man’s most recent prank, but he did… and it _was_ rather worthy of praise.

Sherlock seemed genuinely startled by John’s adulation and nodded his appreciation. “John…” he started but trailed off for a moment. His brow creased thoughtfully before he continued. “Have you ever considered it?”

“Considered what exactly?”

“What you said back there… It _is_ medical-grade silico—”

“What? No. Jesus. I mean… I just… no, I’ve definitely _not_ considered it,” John lied. Because he _had_ considered it. He didn’t want to admit he’d considered it, but he definitely had.

“No. Of course not.”

_Did Sherlock seriously look crestfallen? Was that his way of… no… stop imagining things, Dr. Watson._

***

As time drug on, weeks slowly turning to months, the stunt cock stopped making its regular appearances. John could only attribute it to the last conversation they’d had, and he wasn’t sure what to do. Sherlock wasn’t acting his usual self either. Perhaps he was to the outside world, but John knew him too well to be fooled and once again started to wonder if maybe _‘have you ever considered it?’_ was Sherlock’s best attempt at a proposition. And… well… if it was, John was finally ready to take him up on it. Maybe that was Sherlock’s idea of expressing his feelings or intentions. Maybe he’d taken a real chance in asking—a chance very unlike the man John had come to know and, dare I say, love –and it was time for him to swallow his pride and take one too.

It was early Christmas morning, and John was sure the phallus would either make its valiant return or never be seen again. But he already had his plan in place and butterflies in his stomach. If he’d misjudged… well… it didn’t matter. It was win, lose, or die time!

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cuppa when John padded to the tree and retrieved a package. “Here.” He held it out toward Sherlock. “I got you something.”

“You said we weren’t trading gifts,” Sherlock replied with a curious glance toward the box.

“And you knew I lied. There’s been a gift addressed to me from you under the tree for over a week now.”

Sherlock half-grinned. “Valid point. Come on then.”

John took a seat on the couch, still holding the gift, and waited for Sherlock to join him with the one bearing his name. They traded boxes, but Sherlock insisted John go first. He happily obliged.

With the box heavy in his hands, John was certain he knew what he’d find inside. Considering how long the present had been wrapped, it was clearly not a last minute purchase. Obviously, he’d open it, find the dildo, giggle, and then… well… never mind.

He tore at the paper like an excited toddler. “I think I know what it is.”

“I doubt that.”

“You always doubt me, Sherlock. I’m smarter than you give me credit, though. I really think I know—”

“Oh, John, open the bloody thing already. I just hope it fits.”

John’s eyes widened. “You… I mean… you think it might not?”

“Well, I can’t be sure. I didn’t exactly have measurements. We can trade it for a different size if necessary, though.”

“Uh… yeah… I…” John fumbled his words, his brain searching for the right response and coming up empty. “I’m just gonna…”

“Open it?”

“Yeah.” John propped the box on his thighs and lifted the lid. A mass of tissue paper stood between him and his ‘gift,’ and he was prepped and ready with a rehearsed reaction for when he finally got to it. But wouldn’t you know, the one time John wanted—yes… really, seriously, desperately, _finally_ wanted –to find a silicone replica of Sherlock’s dick, it absolutely wasn’t there.

What John found at the bottom of his box was an obscenely well made, handcrafted, leather gun holster. It was beautiful and oddly thoughtful, and John instantly adored it. His appreciation was apparent in his eyes, but he spoke it anyway… ad nauseum.

Sherlock didn’t seem to mind hearing it. “Shall we make sure it fits then?”

John was quick to his feet and turned so Sherlock could assist in slipping it over his shoulders. And, when Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s chest to buckle it—never mind that he was well capable of doing it himself –John very deliberately left his arms hanging at his sides and leaned back into Sherlock’s sort-of-but-not-quite embrace. “Feels perfect,” John said, knowing full well he wasn’t even remotely talking about the harness.

“Looks like it.” Sherlock cleared his throat and abruptly stepped away.

The sudden loss of contact was enough to briefly throw John off balance, but he was happy to catch himself before actually hitting the ground. “Thank you, Sherlock. Really… it’s wonderful.”

Sherlock smiled a very sincere smile and sat again, tugging John back onto the couch as well. “My turn!”

And that’s when John remembered that he no longer wanted Sherlock to open his gift. He realized his plan had gone horribly awry, and he’d been too stupid or distracted to even notice. _Oh, god._ “Sherlock, don’t. I… I think I may have given you the wrong package.”

“It has my name on it, John.”

“Oh… well…” He dropped his gaze toward the floor, as if he may have dropped the answer and could simply pick it up once located. Unfortunately, his search was interrupted by the sound of tearing paper. _Fuck. At least he won’t have guessed what I got him._ It was little consolation for the humiliation that was about to follow.

John watched in horror as Sherlock fished around blindly in the sea of colourful tissue to retrieve his gift. But he reacted before John could even see he’d found it. “John…”

“I shouldn’t have presumed.”

“Is this—”

“Yes, and I’m deeply sorry. I think I misjudged—”

“Is it _yours?_ ”

John gave a sheepish nod. “A matching pair. I just… I thought that’s what you’d wrapped up for me… and I thought… well… I don’t know what I thought.”

“You molded a replica of your own penis to go with mine?” Sherlock seemed to be caught between shock and laughter.

“Well, _I_ didn’t do it. I had someone else… I mean… I paid someone… no, not like… oh, god.”

Sherlock grinned as he looked it over. “It’s lovely really. A bit larger than I’d have guessed.”

_He’s thought about it? Dear, god. At least he didn’t say it was smaller—_

“What am I meant to do with it? Shall we display them side by side, or—”

“No, it’s just… I thought about when you asked if I’d ever considered… well… anyway… I lied.”

“I know.”

“Ah, for fuck’s sake.” John shook his head. “Not that I’m surprised. Anyway, I had thought about it, and I thought about it even more after you asked. And… I don’t know… I got it in my head that maybe it was your way of saying…” John trailed off. “ _Fuck._ Never mind. I clearly had the wrong idea.”

“If you’re suggesting I have no use for this, you’d be quite right.”

“Yeah, I realize that now. I’m sor—”

Sherlock continued as if John had never interrupted, “Not if you’re offering me the real thing, which I suspect you are.”

“I didn’t mean to… wait… what?”

“I said—” Sherlock leaned toward John, pressed him back into the couch and positioned himself to hover above him. “—I have no use for silicone if the flesh is on offer.”

John nodded in agreement, shock still vastly overwhelming the slurry of other emotions churning in this stomach.

Sherlock’s lips curled into a grin, and he pulled one of John’s legs onto the sofa before settling his own hips between the good doctor’s thighs. He momentarily rutted cock against cock—the not-silicone ones –through the thin layers of fabric cloaking them and pressed a bruising kiss to John’s lips. “Have you any idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this?” he whispered against the kiss.

John shook his head—because he honestly didn’t know –and nipped at Sherlock’s lower lip.

“Merry Christmas, John.”

John ran his hand through the inky nest of curls atop Sherlock’s head. “Merry Christmaaaaaahhh…” As Sherlock’s lips descended between John’s thighs, it was a very merry Christmas indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock and gift giving is hard. This concept was developed alongside katzensprotte and shrillfangirlscreaming at stupid o'clock in the morning on very little sleep... and, well... I ran with it.
> 
> Comments are always encouraged! ♥


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